CHIPOTE
by Dubricus
Summary: Peru: 1969 - Events surrounding the death of Winston Rayne as reported in his own & Derek's journals.
1. Default Chapter

*Title: Chipote 

*Author/pseudonym: Dubricus 

*Email address: dubricus@hotmail.com 

*Website: **Merlynn's Maze** - Journals include maps & sketches. 

*Rating: PG-13; violence, death of a parent 

*Angst Rating: high 

*Focus: 15-year-old Derek Rayne 

*Status: Complete; first posted April 1999. 

*Episode spoilers: the pilot, aka "the Fifth Sepulchre" 

*Summary: The events surrounding the death of Winston Rayne in Peru in 1969 & the survival of his young son, Derek Rayne, as reported in their journals. 

*Disclaimer: This story is an original work of amateur fiction, and is written purely for the private entertainment of P:TL fans. This story is no way affiliated with the Trilogy Entertainment Group, MGM Worldwide Television or The Sci-Fi Channel. No monetary gain is intended. 

* * *

**JOURNAL OF DEREK RAYNE**

_**Monday, 31 March 1969 - 6 a.m. Mexico City time**_

A layover while we wait to catch our flight to Lima has presented the opportunity to jot down a few notes. There hasn't been a free moment during the past couple of days. The flight from San Francisco was bumpy and, though I tried to sleep, I got a bit airsick, so I'm foregoing breakfast. Nothing seems to bother Father - not even too much tequila on an empty stomach at four in the morning. He's in a rather glum mood, but I don't know why. He just sits writing in his notebook and studying his maps. When I try to see, he closes them. Sometimes I feel like piece of luggage for which he had to buy a seat. He used to be fun. 

~~~~~ 

I flew into San Francisco late Saturday night - had taken the train from Geneva late Friday afternoon. I spent the night and a bit of Saturday morning at home with Mother, then flew from Amsterdam to San Francisco with a change of not just planes in New York, but of airports - JFK to LaGuardia. It was a mad dash. Although I've seen quite a lot of the world, it was the first time I've had to do such a thing on my own. The stories one hears about New York City cabbies are quite accurate. He was not at all pleased with his tip. I did not have the time to exchange my money and so had only the dollars I'd brought with me. He spun his wheels in the gutter. I wasn't fast enough and he got me good. 

I had Sunday on the island. It was wonderful to simply wander the hills and coast with Prof. Washburn and listen to his stories. He makes history and legend so vivid. When I graduate, I'm going to apply to Berkeley and Stanford so that I can live on the island and perhaps be his research assistant, if he'll have me. 

I managed to have a decent supper (alone, of course) and take a bit of a nap before catching our 10 p.m. flight. 

~~~~~ 

**_4 p.m. - aboard Flight 202_**

We are somewhere between Lima and Cuzco and should be landing in about 30 min. We barely made the connection. Thank God we did! Father would have been furious had we missed it (not that he's been in an agreeable mood anyway). It's been bumpy all the way. At least, my stomach seems to be getting used to it. This is a local airline with flights twice a week to Cuzco. About all I can say for it is that at least they don't allow chickens in the passenger compartment, though one woman did try to purchase a ticket for her pig. The man across the aisle is carrying something in a bag that smells like it's been dead for a week - of course, it may be he. 

* * *

**LEGACY JOURNAL OF WINSTON RAYNE**

**_Mon. March 31, 1969 - Cuzco, Peru - Hotel del Sol - 9 PM_**

Derek & I arrived via a local airline late this afternoon. A very tiring day - left SF late last night on flight to Mexico City with a stop in LA. Then, we had a 3 hr. layover & change of planes in Mex. DF for the flight to Lima. Didn't even bother to check in with the Lima House - such a rush to catch the bi-weekly flight here. Immediately hired a car (a good, old Land Rover) & purchased equipment & supplies for the trip to Urubamba, which will be our base of operations for our rambles to the various Incan sites. 

I'm particularly anxious to visit a site recently discovered between the Q'ente Ruin & the railway tunnel. Official reports assert that the site has for the most part yielded artifacts of the Late Formative Period of the Classic Nasca style - unusual for that far inland. However, rumor has it that there have been items uncovered that present a paradox in that they seem to include designs that bear some resemblance to writing, which was, of course, unknown to pre-Columbian South America. Rumor also has it that the "designs" resemble Kabbalistic "angelic" script. 

We'll take in the sights here in Cuzco tomorrow, while we rest up & purchase a few additional items available only on the black market. With the evenings still moderately long, & the road said to be decent, we should be in fine shape if we leave by early afternoon. 

* * * 

Though exhausted, Derek seemed to have had good time this evening. For some reason he found it amusing to eat at a "Chifas," a local Chinese restaurant. The dinner of noodles & chopped chicken was hot & therefore safe & more than passable. It also struck him as funny that Chinese noodles should have a Spanish name - "taillarines." I sometimes forget how young he is & when I suddenly realize, it surprises me. It's then that I discover how little we really know about each other. While eating I quizzed him on his languages - his French & German are more than adequate, his Spanish somewhat less. His Latin, for some reason, is abominable - he cannot seem to get his mind around the way the language works. Last session's grades were abysmal. It's such a logical language. It's odd, but he seems to do much better with Hebrew, despite the entirely different alphabet & construction. Unfathomable! 

Derek's a basically bright boy with boundless curiosity, but he lacks focus - a very dangerous flaw in the world of the Legacy, which I hope will be his world. His mind flits in all directions at once. He needs to concentrate on one thing at a time until he masters it: a jack-of-all-trades will always be a master-of-none. This lack of focus is made doubly dangerous by the gift of his "Sight," which is the strongest I've ever seen - far beyond my own small talent. He must learn self-control & discipline or he'll never be able to deal with it. C warned me on the night of his birth that he would need special handling, since he'll have a special mission in life. I wish I felt that he was stronger - he cares so much that I fear it could be his weakness. There's so much passion there just below the surface. He needs to divorce himself from these emotional distractions. 

Perhaps, I was wrong in allowing Barbara to select a Swiss school, when a place like Gordonstoun in Scotland, where this young batch of royals are being sent, would have been better. I understand that they promote stoicism & discipline - a sound mind in a sound body, accustomed to no luxuries. But, then again, maybe a military school would have been best. That might have tamed his flightiness & instilled some backbone. I fear it's too late now. All I can do to make amends is be a harsh taskmaster. The Legacy's not an easy life. I must either weed him out now (for his own safety), or, I hope, watch him rise to the occasion. Considering the warning, I should have paid attention years ago, but the battle against evil called. There is nothing of greater importance than that - if we lose that battle, then all is lost. 

After this jaunt, I'll take him back to Lima & put him on the flight to Amsterdam via Madrid. Then, I'll return to further study the burial site & pursue some vague leads on the sepulcher. 

* * *

**JOURNAL OF DEREK RAYNE **

_10 p.m. - Cuzco - Hotel del Sol_

I can barely keep my eyes open even though I tried to sleep as much as possible on the planes. It has been a long thirty hrs. I am so tired from the trip I can scarcely think, but I want to make my notes now while the impressions are clear - almost clear. 

Having arrived at the hotel, nothing would do but that we must immediately go in search of transportation and supplies. I do not know how Father does it. He never stops. All I could think of was a shower and a nap. 

Later, we ate at a small Chinese restaurant near the cathedral. I don't know why, but I was surprised to see the neon sign reading Palacio de Szechwan. I guess it would not have startled me in Lima or Mexico City, but somehow here, in the ancient Incan capital, it just seemed odd. They served a wonton soup and some sort of spicy chicken and noodle dish that was every bit as good as the restaurants in SF's Chinatown. 

Father seems to have an obsession with languages. He wouldn't even let me eat in peace. It started on the flight from Mexico City to Lima. I asked the stewardess in Spanish for an additional pillow and apparently said it in the wrong tense. From then on, every time he knew I was awake he was drilling me in a dozen different languages. I don't know how he keeps them all straight. Once, half out of exhaustion, half out of cussedness, I answered him in a combination of German, French, and Latin. One would have thought that I had committed a mortal sin. By that time I was so tired and confused it's a wonder I didn't answer him in Esperanto. I made the mistake of using the word "groovy" - don't think I'll do that again in his presence. 

Tomorrow, we are going to the mercado to make some additional purchases of the illegal sort - a gun and ammunition, I suspect. Dad said we could go see the Coricancha, the Golden Courtyard, before we head out for Urubamba. He said that before the Conquest it was all covered in gold sheeting, but now all that remains is the amazing stonework. I want to see those immense boulders that are so tightly fitted you cannot get a knife's blade between them. How did they do it without even the wheel? Could von Daniken's "Chariots of the Gods" be right? 

After we return, he promised to really show me the city, and Lima too. I just hope he quits with the language tests. Perhaps I'll go on strike and speak only Dutch with him. I don't think I'd like the consequences. 

* * *

**LEGACY JOURNAL OF WINSTON RAYNE **

_Tues, April 1st - 12:30 AM_

Have received word that the sepulcher has been found! (Hope it's not somebody's idea of an April Fool's joke.) I pray that it's the one I suspect. It surely must be, since the key I possess came from this area. 

I know that I'll get no sleep tonight, so I'll set down my tale now - for the 1st time in a Legacy Journal. I know that I'll doubtless be reprimanded by London for having carried on my own private investigations concerning the sepulchers. On more than one occasion I've found the interference of the past RP to be galling & unnecessarily intrusive. 

Many believe the existence of the sepulchers, said to imprison the fallen Watchers, is purely mythological. However, after the war, I was engaged in research on the occult interests of certain high ranking Nazi officials. Amongst others was SS Gruppenführer Manfred Todt, in whose collection I found a large quantity of texts & scrolls relating to Kabbala, "angelic" script, & references to the sepulchers. Over the next couple of years I sporadically continued the research, treating it as a relaxing hobby between Legacy cases & foundation work. However, in early 1953 an earthquake struck NW Turkey & my research became a search in earnest. 

The quake severely damaged the chapel of a small Greek Orthodox monastery on the Aegean island of Samothraki. Whilst performing repairs the monks found an ancient library concealed in the crypt. It had been sealed off over three centuries ago & long since forgotten. A friend studying at the Univ. in Athens knew of my interest in Kabbala & told me that this trove contained many previously unknown Kabbalistic texts. I flew over & the Brothers, not realizing the significance of their discovery, kindly let me peruse at my leisure. It was a very pleasant, very fruitful two weeks. Within one volume I found a large folded lambskin parchment that contained a detailed drawing of a sepulcher & its key, as well as the invocations, conjurations, & incantations needed to call forth the arch-demon & to subdue him to the will of man. What was most curious about this parchment was the diversity of the languages used. Portions were written in Greek, Latin, Gaelic (& it turned out to be Manx Gaelic), & something that seemed to contain a few Catalan words but was otherwise unrecognizable. I later determined it to be Quechua, the language of the Incas, phonetically written in Catalan. I now was certain that at least one of the sepulchers had once existed, perhaps in the New World. 

About ten years later, while visiting the Prado on foundation business, I happened to read the obituary of a Señor Ortiz of Barcelona. In it there was mention that an ancestor had been with Pizarro in Peru & that the family still possessed a relic of the expedition - an oddly shaped key that had survived the family's financial ups & downs because it seemingly possessed no value. In my mind, as I read, I saw the key. I raced to Barcelona & purchased it for an amount that would keep Señora Ortiz & her family in comfort for the next 50 yrs. 

After that, as often as I could, I traveled to Peru to try to discover the origins of the key. To no avail. But, 3 yrs. ago by pure serendipity I came across the name of Ortiz in a book at the Library of Congress. It was a paymaster's roll for a Spanish expedition over the Andes into the westernmost reaches of the Amazon. They were, of course, seeking El Dorado. Thereafter, I concentrated my search, perhaps with more intuition than logic, on the eastern slopes of the Andes from southern Ecuador to northern Chile. 

* * * 

At the same time, I spread word through the native grapevines that I was offering a hefty reward for information concerning any unusual receptacles found in the region. I let it be known that the box was very bad, "white man's" magic & should be handled only by a powerful "shaman," such as myself. It sounds lame, but, fortunately, they trust me. I've never deceived them & have always paid my guides well above the going rate. It's the only way to build one's reputation in areas that rely only upon word-of-mouth. There have been a few very odd red-herrings, but I think this time it's for real. 

Apparently, native miners found it at a gold mine near the village of Chipote, which was abandoned several years ago when the mine played out. The local tribesmen, probably of Incan stock, but perhaps affiliated with the Mascho, evidently still visit the mine occasionally to glean what little ore remains in the tailings. One of the children went off exploring & made the find of an elongated, hexagonal casket of about 1x3ft. Lord, if the legend is true that the ancient Druids scattered the sepulchers (The use of Gaelic would seem to support this.) & this discovery is, indeed, a sepulcher, how did the Druids get it here? Was the voyage of St. Brendan but one of many the Celtic peoples may have made across the seas? They were after all a vastly expansive people. I believe much more remains to be discovered about the earliest origins & travels of the race. Maybe, this will be a major step forward even in the field of anthropology & the study of the earliest civilizations. 

* * * 

Tomorrow we'll take the road to Puerto Maldonado, but shall turn off at about the 1/2way point to take a mining road NE toward the basin of the Rio Madre de Dios. I understand that it's about 75 km from the junction, as the crow flies. Though supposedly still in good condition when the mine closed, the road itself is probably now little more than a trail &, with its twists & curves, is said to be about 180 km. I suspect it must be somewhere NW of Manú. I'd hire a helicopter, but none are available. 

I suspect Derek's going to be quite upset at the change in plans. I only hope he doesn't descend into one of his piquish moods & make life miserable for us both. I'd promised to show him the city, the Inca trail, the Urubamba Valley, & Machu Picchu, but that will have to wait. I can risk no delay. The thing is far too dangerous & too valuable. I cannot let my colleagues down by allowing the thing to slip through my fingers simply because I have my son with me. 

My God! The discovery of the sepulcher could be equal to the discovery of the Rosetta Stone, the Dead Sea Scrolls, & the Holy Grail combined. It could change our whole view of God, heaven & hell. Perhaps, it will change our whole concept of evil & how to fight it. Now we might actually win. 

~~~~~~~ 

**_Tuesday - 6 AM - Mercado Central_**

We leave as soon as we complete our breakfast & I make my "covert" purchases. My son is the most irritating, obstinate individual I've ever met - pure cussed pigheadedness. I suppose it runs in the family - he takes after his mother's side. He's already harping about his ruined holiday & how I always do this to him. What difference does it make whether we visit Machu Picchu or Chipote? We'll be together & he'll be gaining experience. This is a sepulcher that could contain the ultimate secrets of the universe. Machu Picchu will still be there a thousand years from now. 

I don't know what Derek wants from me - I've seen that he, Ingrid, & Barbara have wanted for nothing; I take him with me to spend time with him & show him the world; I try to teach him about life & help him with his schooling, but it never seems to be enough. He's lucky - I never really knew my father. He died when I was four. 

* * *

**JOURNAL OF DEREK RAYNE **

_Dinsdag, 1 Apr. - 6 a.m. - Cuzco_

April Fool's on me. I'm so furious I can't even write what's happened at the moment. Dad's tossed all our plans into the rubbish heap. How dare he! He always does this to me. I should be used to it by now. I should leave - then perhaps he wouldn't go. Who am I kidding? He'd go and leave me to fend for myself. He'd be going without backup. I can't let him do that - not with this. Though I've "seen" nothing, I have very bad vibes about this. More later, when I can think clearly. 

* * *

**LEGACY JOURNAL OF WINSTON RAYNE **

_Noon - on rd. to Quince Mil_

I bought a good old reliable US Army service revolver at a very reasonable price - along with several boxes of ammo & a few sticks of dynamite with caps, just in case we need to clear the road or run into trouble at the mine. 

The car has overheated on a long, steep climb. We made it to the top, but must wait for it to cool - another climb lies ahead. So, here I sit, while Derek's wandered off to take in the sights. I think he's so angry he's about to burst. He needs to learn that life can take surprising turns - both pleasant & unpleasant. One can never allow oneself to become set in one's ways or thrown off balance when plans go awry, for they always do. 

I now regret having brought him. In truth, I'd not expected this. (Thank God I carry the sepulcher's key with me always.) He needs field experience, but not of this variety - it's too dangerous & momentous. I hesitated to put him on a plane to Lima to then have to book a flight back to the States or to Amsterdam. He's never had to actually deal with travel arrangements himself, and having to do it primarily in Spanish might have been too much for him. Ordinarily, I'd have trusted the Lima House to handle the details, but in light of this discovery I'm reluctant to trust anyone. I couldn't leave him in Cuzco, nor did I have the time to drive him back to Lima to put him on a plane myself. Nothing must hinder this mission. 

* * *

**JOURNAL OF DEREK RAYNE **

_2 April - Quince Mil - Wednesday night_

Still I am barely containing my anger. We fought all day. He won't listen to reason. It's like he's insane. All I wanted was to spend some time with him. Now he's turned my holiday into an expedition to hell. Why is his duty to the Legacy and to his damned colleagues always more important than we are? It's why Mother took us back to Amsterdam. She said she couldn't bear the loneliness anymore. She couldn't bear the waiting and not knowing whether he would ever return. 

He kept shoving these parchments in my face and wanting me to translate them as I read. The road was so rough I couldn't have even focused on Mother Goose in giant print. 

I am finally calm enough to write of the incidents of yesterday. Very late Mon. night I heard a knock on the door, but I was so far asleep that I rolled over and pulled the covers over my head. Father awakened me at five. After that I could never move fast enough for him. I don't think he had slept at all. We grabbed breakfast at a stall in the central market - boiled something. That was when I wrote my last entry, while he was in search of a pistol and ammunition. He also bought about ten sticks of dynamite and blasting caps. 

By 6:30, we were on the road to Puerto Maldonado, a town on the Madre de Dios river near the Bolivian border. About noon we hit rain. It has rained ever since. The road was bad enough before, but with the deluge it became patches of asphalt interspersed with oceans of mud. We got stuck twice yesterday and three times today. Last night we stopped for a few hrs. along the roadside. There was no way to make a camp, so we slept in the car. 

Late this evening we finally made it into a town called Quince Mil and found a room at the New York Hotel. What a joke! I'd rather be sleeping in the car. No facilities and a bed that looks to be infested. I don't even want to spread my sleeping bag on it for fear that the creatures will change their address. The roof leaks so much that the floor resembles a tidal pool - every now and again something swims by. 

~~~~~ 

Still not thinking clearly - to backtrack again: Apparently the knock on the door was a telegram sent from this town by one of the local guides. It said an unusual box had been found at a mine in Chipote, which is somewhere northeast of here. Father believes it is one of the five sepulchres said to imprison fallen angels. The sepulchres have been his obsession for as long as I can remember, but it has been getting worse over the past few years. I've heard it said that he often neglects both his Legacy work and the foundation in pursuit of these artifacts. Prof. Washburn covers for him, but says that no one understands the power of these things. He says that if they exist they are not for mortal beings - their power is seductive and absolute. He told me that he worries because Father will never use the team or even take anyone as backup when he goes on these searches, which often last for weeks. Father says he knows exactly how dangerous they are and does not wish to risk another person. I'm not sure that's the only reason. 

How am I ever going to sleep in this place? 

* * *

**LEGACY JOURNAL OF WINSTON RAYNE **

_4/2 - 10 P.M. - Hotel Nueva York, Quince Mil_

The going has been hellish - RAIN - therefore, mud & landslides, but what else can one expect on the eastern slope of the Andes in early April? It will get worse as we descend toward the cloud forest of the montaña. 

It took us damn near 2 days to go the 100 odd km from Cuzco to Quince Mil. Thank God there was a hotel - rat & vermin infested hole that it is - at least it has a bed & a roof, which doesn't leak too much. We both had to laugh at the irony of the name - New York Hotel. God knows who thought that one up. 

Off again at daybreak. We'll make the turnoff to the mining road about 25 km from here. My son is not a pleasant traveling companion. Such a strange boy - sometimes he's worse than his sister with her rosary beads. Don't know where it comes from - not from me, nor from the Barbara I used to know. 

* * *

**LEGACY JOURNAL OF WINSTON RAYNE **

_Thursday, Apr. 3 - Camp - 50 km NE of Rd. from Quince Mil to Pto. Maldonado_

More mud & rain - the rainy season's last hurrah, I suspect. At times like these one wonders if one will ever be clean & dry again. 

Derek became ill this morning - doubtless something at breakfast disagreed. I should have insisted that he eat our own food, rather than trusting the local cafe. I gave him a dose to settle his stomach, then made him stretch out in the back of the Rover. He slept for a couple of hours, after which he seemed back to his contrary self. Thank goodness - don't know what I'd have done if it had been something serious. 

The water pump broke this afternoon & cost us almost 3 hrs. It's a good thing that I pack almost as many spare parts & tools as I do food. I fear it will be slow going. The inclines are steep & the trail is mud. I'm afraid I'm going to strip the gears. The clutch has also developed an odd feel. I almost got stuck twice, but so far have been lucky enough to push on through. 

With sheer drops above and below, if we were to meet so much as a llama one of us would have to back up. God knows how many miles it would be before the other could get around. Only a few more kilometers until we begin the descent into the much denser vegetation that will mark the real beginnings of the Amazon. The man assured me that the road improves closer to the mine. 

Am guessing at the mileage since the odometer doesn't work. Spotted a rocky ledge with an overhang & stopped here. Have been able to make a camp & have a bit of a fire using some rags, papers, & other refuse - enough to warm up a meal. 

All day today I tried to pound into Derek's brain the Latin, Greek, Gaelic, & Quechuan incantations needed to vanquish & enthrall the demon of the sepulcher. Hopeless! If he cannot translate it out of the Latin into English or even Dutch, how will he ever be able to use it properly in the language from whence it came? He thinks rote memory will do it - it will not! He must know & understand fully what it, or any incantation, means - in order to believe the words. It's the belief that's all. We cannot win without believing & in order to believe absolutely, to have faith, we must know the whole truth. 

* * * 

I'm ready to turn him over my knee & may just do it within the next few minutes. It wouldn't be that difficult - he's a runt. I hope he gets a spurt of growth soon - after all, he just turned 15. At his age, I was nearly a ft. taller. He keeps parroting Prof. Washburn at me. George is a fine man & an excellent researcher, but he's an academic, who prefers his ivory towers to true field work. Anything & everything in the field is dangerous, but we must not shirk our responsibilities to discover the truth, to ferret out evil, & to fight the minions of hell whenever & wherever we have the opportunity. We can kill the serpent if we can cut off its head. It's the burden that God placed upon the Legacy. 

According to George, I shouldn't be doing this without back-up. I'm afraid my back-up is Derek. I'll just have to make sure he's ready & then pray to God that I don't need him, because he certainly wouldn't be much help. Perhaps, George is right that it should only be opened in the controlled environment of a Legacy laboratory - especially in that I do have Derek with me. Should I risk my son like this? But if I take it back unopened, it will remain unopened. The Ruling Council will judge it to be too dangerous & will lock it away in some secret vault, never to be seen again. To learn we must embrace danger - after all, great scientists, like Louis Pasteur, used themselves as guinea pigs to further man's knowledge. If I do not open it, the questions will never be asked, nor answered - and the battle may be lost. What's the old rhyme? For want of shoe the horse was lost? 

We should arrive at the Chipote mine tomorrow evening, barring unforeseen problems, which, of course, there will be. I hope that our guide will still be waiting, since he probably expected us today. 

* * *

**JOURNAL OF DEREK RAYNE **

_Thursday, 3 April - Somewhere in Peru_

Today was mostly silent. He gave me those papers again, which seem to contain some form of incantation in Latin, Gaelic, and Quechua, I think he said. He told me to learn them. I told him that I had, but he said I'd only memorised them. I didn't KNOW them. I don't understand what he expects of me. I try, but it's never enough. I don't think I ever recall hearing a "well done" or "I'm proud of you, son," from him. The best I ever get is "OK... that's adequate." Mostly, all I hear is what he could do when he was my age. I can get my tongue around neither the Gaelic nor the Quechua. 

As we bounced and plunged along he insisted that I read the notebook that he has specifically kept for the sepulchres. I'm not sure I even believe in the damned things. I got carsick trying to focus on the damned pages. We had to stop while I lost my breakfast. I was surprised he didn't yell at me for that too. Instead, he made me drink some horrid stuff, then laid the sleeping bags out in the back of the car for me and insisted that I sleep for a while, which I did. 

I have no idea where we are. After we left Quince Mil at dawn, though with the clouds so low you couldn't tell it, the road got worse, but we fell into a convoy with some trucks going to Puerto Maldonado. That at least helped when we got stuck. 

Around noon we turned off onto this mining trail. Trail? It's a mire cut into a mountainside, but Dad says the guide told him that it will improve as we get closer to Chipote. We finally stopped when Father saw a rocky ledge that would provide dry ground and shelter. I think he finally ran out of steam. I don't even know when he last really slept - perhaps not since San Francisco. Tomorrow we shall descend out of the Andean highlands toward the upper reaches of the Amazon - an area Father said they call the "cloud forest". 

He said we needed to be ready for tomorrow - rested and alert. I keep telling him I have really bad feelings about this, but he will not listen. He tells me that I don't know how to control or properly analyse my "Sight". He says that I let my emotions influence it. I think he says that because he doesn't want to listen to what I'm trying to tell him. It's not what he wants to hear. That's all it ever is - what he wants. 

I didn't really want to come to Peru. I'd have been happy to have stayed in San Francisco. I love the island and the city. I find Prof. Washburn fascinating. But I came because he said he wanted to show me Machu Picchu. He promised that we could spend time together at one of the newer digs. It was all a lie. I think he knew all along that the discovery of a sepulchre (if that's what it is) might be close. Dragging me here was an excuse. That's why he didn't notify the Lima House that we were in the country. No one knows where we are. He wants it all to himself. It frightens me. Sight unseen it seems to have a hold over him. God, if it has this power over him now. What will happen when he actually touches it? 

I finally finished reading through his Legacy Journal and his notebook. I don't understand much. The notebook mostly contains Kabbala - very confusing with its numerical codes and strange alphabets - all about the hierarchy of angels, the sons of God, the faces of Satan, demons, arch-demons, and fallen angels. He wrote some of it in Greek, some in Latin, and something that looks like it could be hieroglyphics, but not quite the same. I skipped all of that. 

I'm sick of Latin! It makes no sense - all those different endings on nouns and verbs. Regular verbs, irregular verbs, active, passive, gerunds, infinitives, imperative, conjugations, tenses - present, imperfect, future, perfect (Why can't they just say past?), past perfect, future perfect. Then there are the nouns and their cases: nominative = subject, genitive = possessive, accusative = object, dative, ablative. Why can't they just say what they are without all these fancy names? Then there's masculine, feminine, and neuter, and declensions. 2nd declension has five different types of noun endings to start with - then six different case endings on top of that. 3rd declension has four types. Then let's not forget the 4th and 5th declensions! It's unending! How did anyone ever speak the language? 

The closer we get to Chipote the angrier he gets that I'm not quick enough, and the more he drinks. Even now he's ordering me to blow out the lantern because I'm wasting the kerosene. 

Why couldn't he have walked away from the Legacy like his own grandfather did? Why couldn't he have been a businessman in a suit with a briefcase who commuted to the city every day? Why couldn't he love us more than the Legacy and its demon hunt? What is the Legacy that it demands such loyalty, such sacrifices from its members? Could its soul be as dark as those it fights? Nothing but questions that no one can or wants to answer. I swear upon my soul that I shall never put those I love through such torture - and yet, I feel its pull. Something deep inside of me tells me that no matter what road I take, I shall end up at the Legacy. I know so many wonderful people who are a part of it - people who do difficult, dangerous, vital jobs, like Dad, George Washburn, and Mother, once upon a time. They battle the forces of darkness and protect the innocent, but the thought of becoming like Dad terrifies me. Is there such a thing as destiny? 

Please God - protect my father, give him strength in his quest, and if his quest is an illusion, let him see it for what it is. If the sepulchre is for real, please, God, help us both or we are surely lost. Help me to help him and grant me the brains and the strength of character to come a little closer to his expectations so that, perhaps, he can love me a little more than he does. I know that if I fail he will be disappointed and will surely love me less. How shall I ever gain his respect? 

* * *

**LEGACY JOURNAL OF WINSTON RAYNE **

_Midnight - Apr. 4, 1969_

I cannot sleep. Lord! I cannot believe that the hunt might be over. It seems that half my life has been spent in the search for the sepulchers. Can it be that this will be 1 down & 4 to go? I feel it's pull even now. Perhaps, at last, I shall meet one of the "bene-ha-Elohim" - one of the "Sons of God" - face to face. Give me the strength to subdue him. I shall force him to tell me how to destroy his profane brotherhood. I shall have answers to all my questions. Have they seen the face of God? Why did they choose to rebel? Was it only pride? Was it that, in their arrogance, they could not bring themselves to obey the command to teach man & to bow down before him? Was it lust for the daughters of Cain? Or is there something more that God does not want us to know? More than what Eve learned from that apple? Is good & evil all a sham? Are they the same? Are we God's toys, or Satan's? Or are we the pawns in some obscene chess game? I must be certain, but to be certain, I must know the whole truth. But what if the whole truth brings no answers - nothing but more uncertainty. No! I must believe that the eternal battle between light & dark is a just one that will be won. Perhaps, I'll be able to rid the world of one of the Hydra's evil heads, & by this time tomorrow I shall know the answers. Please, let me find the strength. 

~~~~~ 

**_Friday, 4 April 1969 - 11:20 P.M. - Chipote, Peru_**

I, Derek Rayne, append this entry to my father's Legacy journal and I pray to God that I shall never have to make another such entry. 

_**Early this morning, my father, Winston Rayne, died.**_

Damn the Legacy, damn my father's obsession with it's battles and with his fantasy of those god-forsaken sepulchres, and damn me for not being able to stop him. Yet, another wild goose chase after a bunch of non-existent boxes - only this time it killed him. 

Word had reached him that an unusual receptacle had been found in an abandoned mine shaft. Nothing must do but that we had to alter our plans to see Cuzco and Picchu to come here to this hell hole to track down this myth. Father had offered a sizable reward for information regarding any such rumour. In my opinion, the informant (not our guide) concocted the story for the money, then, perhaps, chose the most unstable mine in the area. 

Father ordered me to remain in the car, which I did, while he went to explore the mine. He had not been in there more than twenty minutes when he was caught in a rock fall. His guide came running to tell me, but then the fellow scurried off into the jungle. I am certain he was afraid he would be accused of some black deed, but none of it was his fault. As for the sepulchre, it was an old, rusted strong box. My father threw his life away for an old, rusted strong box! 

I buried my father just inside the mine's entrance and placed a cairn of rocks and a cross over the shallow grave. I swear that I shall return for him if I myself manage to make it back to civilization. 


	2. Chipote: Pt 2

**JOURNAL OF DEREK RAYNE **

_Friday, 4 April 1969 - Chipote, Peru _

My father is dead. 

This journal must now never, ever see the light of day. I would write nothing, but find that this is the only way I can reason myself out of this situation. It's been my trick to clarify my mind since Father gave me my first blank book on my tenth birthday. I am using the pen he gave me then - not a pen - a rosewood and gold writing instrument. At first the blank pages frightened me, but then he told me I could draw in it or write music or share my secrets. He said it would always be my friend, to whom I could confide anything and who would in turn help me sort things out and reach a decision - and in the years to come it would be my memory. So it must do now. 

I am totally alone. What will I do without him? Terrified out of their wits, Father's native guide and his daughter have vanished along with their llama. I sit here, at the entrance to the mine, listening to the rain and looking into the blackness, waiting for each flash of lightning. The only sounds are the rain and thunder. How empty the world seems. I know that I must find the courage to go back into that place to collect up my father's body and give him a proper burial, but I have never seen a dead person before. How can I be afraid of my own father's body? But I am. 

Perhaps I'll go down to the mine building where the guide and the girl were waiting. They must have had a stove in there - I could smell the wood burning. A light shone through the window as we arrived. No - I can't do that either. I can't leave him. I can't go to him and I can't leave him. So here I sit watching the rain and the lightning. 

I wish there was a way that I could take him home, but we're nearly four days from Cuzco, and two from the main road. In this weather, I know that it cannot be done. I swear that if the Legacy does not come for him soon, I shall find a way to do it myself. If, that is, I myself manage to make it out. I must admit that I'm really not sure where we are. All I know is that if I follow the road we came in on, it will take me back out. I shall wait a day to see if the guide or anyone else returns. 

~~~~~ 

_**Sat, 5 April - Chipote**_

Dad told me to divorce myself from my emotions. I shall try to do so now, so that I can sort this out and have it make sense in my own mind. However, I find that I cannot yet write of last night. 

I found a photo in Father's sepulchre notebook - of me and him in the mountains - three years ago in Yosemite. It was a happy time. We had fun. I remember a high meadow there that was so covered by some sort of bluish-purple flower that it looked like a lake. I never knew he kept that photo. Perhaps he loved me more than I thought, but just didn't know how to tell me. One never suspects that one's parents might be uncertain or frightened. If I make it out of here, I shall try to be more diligent in my studies. He told me I had no focus, that I try to go in all directions at once. He's right. My mind does go in all directions at once. I want to learn it all - I want to learn to fly, I want to visit every country in the world, I want to know science and history. I want to read the Encyclopedia Britannica - all 23 volumes - cover to cover, and the Bible (all versions, in their original languages), the Talmud, the Koran in Arabic, the Bhagavad-Gita, and the Tao of Lao Tzu. I want to be able to play Chopin, Mozart, and Beethoven from memory. I want to know the names of all the stars and be able to pick out all the constellations. Dad always said that we would raft down the Colorado River - just like they did a hundred years ago. I'll do that. That's what I must focus upon, if no help comes and I have to get out of here by myself. If I fail, Father will never get home, and there will be two more empty niches in the tomb with plaques that read "dedicated to the memory of." 

~~~~~ 

Dear God, I still have his blood on my hands. I didn't realise until the daylight came. It's under my nails and all around them. His blood is on my sweatshirt and jacket, too. The world now seems a million times larger and a zillion times emptier. What do I do without my dad? 

I finally went back just before dawn. The torch had burned out. I could only see as far as the light of my own flame. I got half way down the tunnel and almost couldn't go any further, but somehow did, step by step. At each step I imagined the sight of his body and that the demon was devouring it while it awaited my return. 

When I finally saw him lying there all alone, it seemed as though he had shrunk into a frail old man. Rigor mortis was setting in. It was very hard for me to compose his body, but I did it. Then I washed the blood and dirt from his face and hands, and I combed his hair. I didn't cry. I wonder if he'd be proud of me now. It's not that I'm controlling my tears. It's that they are not there. 

I tried to get his precept's ring back onto his finger. He seems naked without it, but it was no use. I thought to put it in his pocket, but found that, despite what it represents, I couldn't part with it. I feel that as long as I have it with me, he will be with me. I placed it on the string with the sepulchre's key, which is around my neck. I took his wallet in case I need money, but left his passport. I shall make a cross from a couple of boards and nail the passport to it, so that if anyone should come, they will know who lies there. 

Using old mining tools that had been left behind to rust, I managed to dig a shallow grave - only about a metre deep. I've hit such hard ground that I fear it is rock. I shall rest a while, then go collect as many stones as I can find to finish my sad job. I almost can't bear the thought of leaving him all alone out here. 

~~~~~ 

I cannot sleep. Every time I doze the horrors fill my dreams and I awaken with a scream in my throat. I am tired and my hands are blistered, but I must finish my task. Then I must deal with the sepulchre. It's noon and no one has come. 

~~~~~ 

**_6 p.m._**

I placed Father in his sleeping bag, then into his cold bed. I said the Lord's Prayer and the 23rd Psalm, then sang "Amazing Grace" and made an attempt at "Ave Maria," his favourite. A cairn of stones and a cross now rest atop his grave. How lonely he must be, lying up there in the dark, cold ground. 

I dragged the sepulchre to one of the mine shafts that seemed bottomless. When I dropped a stone in, it took it a very long time to hit the water. I have no idea how deep it might really be. I hope it goes all the way to hell. I shone the torch down there, but never saw the water. I pushed the unholy thing in. It made a big splash. I would have used the dynamite to collapse the shaft as well, but I didn't know how the blasting caps worked, so with a rope I managed to pull down some timbers and cause a slight rock fall without killing myself. It is enough to cover what really happened and to account for my statement in Dad's journal. Perhaps it is better that I couldn't use the dynamite. They would have been able to tell that there was an explosion. 

I've forced myself to move down to the miner's shack. It is rather cozy with its pot-bellied stove, kerosene lamp, table and chairs, and a bed. There were even a couple of cans of beans, which I heated and ate, a Bible, and an old, iron strong box, which I hauled up to the mine to act as a substitute sepulchre. If someone other than myself returns, I know they will look. 

I blistered my hands pretty good while digging Dad's grave. I've put ointment on them and bandaged them as best I can. I was a fool for not thinking of gloves, but then I wasn't really thinking at all. I shall leave in the morning. 

~~~~~ 

Sleep will not come. The visions keep replaying themselves. Perhaps, it is time that I write them. Oh, dear God, how do I write this? Ik ben een Paardelul - such a jerk, but I was right. He should never have tried to do this alone. But he wasn't alone, was he? I was his backup and I let him down and he's dead. Did I kill him? I think I did. I distracted him. I was pleading with him to get out of there and he turned his back on the sepulchre to stretch his hand out to me. He was saying, "Come on, take my hand," when the demon of the sepulchre arose from its prison and grabbed him from behind. 

What if I hadn't been there? Perhaps he would have been facing it head on. He could have done his binding incantations. Without me, maybe he would have been stronger. He ordered me to stay in the car, but I disobeyed. We had been fighting over Latin. I threw his damn parchment out the window. He was so angry I thought that he was going to hit me, but he didn't. I can't remember that he ever did more than spank me once or twice. God knows I've deserved it, but a look from him usually did the trick. When he was really angry, he'd always walk away. Mother was the one who kept the hairbrush handy. 

I'll never forget the phrase that was part of the binding spell: Te provicio ad abyssum tibi paratum > I banish thee to the abyss for thee prepared. But even that one I don't get. Expellere or peliere is to banish, and as for abyssum? "Y" is a rarity in Latin - it only shows up in Greek words. In Latin it should be something like "profundum". It should read: Te expelleo ad tibi profundum paratum. 

God! What am I doing? I'm mucking around with Latin that means nothing to me while my father lies in his grave because of me. My last words to him before he went into the mine were "I don't believe you anymore," and I was the one who hit him. He grabbed my jacket and I slammed his hand away. 

It was my "Sight" that caused it all. I know that now. The guide appeared from nowhere. Father tried to pay him, but he would take nothing. The little girl led him up the stairs to the mine. He left me in the car and ordered me to stay, but I had a flash of something - of Dad being thrown against the mine's timbers, of them collapsing. Nothing more, but I knew. I jumped out of the car and ran to retrieve the parchment from a puddle. The little girl came running from the mine in terror and disappeared with her father into the darkness. I ran up the stairs to the mine. It seemed like a thousand steps. 

When I got there he was kneeling before the sepulchre about to insert the key. He was - I don't know a word for it - not quite insane, but almost - fanatical, perhaps? His eyes were glassy and wild. His voice had a maniacal edge to it. He said that burying something that powerful was like damming a river with stones. The river finds its way. He needed to know the whole truth. I know that the creature of the sepulchre already had him in its power. 

I tried to get the key away from him, but he pushed me away and turned the key. It was then that he seemed to hesitate and ponder. I think he realised what he had done. He stepped around the sepulchre and stretched out his hand to me. His whole face softened for a moment - more like the father I used to know. That's when he said, "Come on, take my hand." Then there was a strange sound, at first, like wind in the pines, but it grew as a mist rose behind my father. I tried to warn him even as it seemed to transform into a distorted skeleton. I'm not sure if that's what the demon really looked like, or if that was simply how my own eyes and mind perceived it. It grasped him and threw him down the shaft into the timbers just as I had foreseen. Why couldn't I prevent it? I ran to him. He was all bloody. But as soon as I reached him, the thing started to drag him back toward the sepulchre. I tried to hold onto him, but couldn't. He kept screaming "the key, the key," but at first I couldn't understand him. I was too slow. I should have thought of that myself. At last I did understand. I ran for the sepulchre and turned the key. The creature was immediately sucked back into its prison. The silence returned. There was only the sound of the thunder, rain, and Dad's breathing - his death rattle. 

I told him I could get him out of there, but he knew better. He said he was sorry. My God - he told me he was sorry. I'm the one who should be sorry. I am sorry. I let him down. 

He took off his precept's ring and pressed it into my hand. I wanted him to take it back, but he said that the burden was mine now. I don't want it. I'm not ready. 

~~~~~ 

**_Sunday, 6 April - Chipote - 7 AM_**

No one has come. 

I'm preparing to leave. I swear upon the Rayne honour and upon my own soul, that my father will not lie here. I will see that he finds his rest at home with his ancestors above Ayala Cove. 

~~~~~ 

**_10 a.m. - on trail_**

Disaster! I wasn't even 15 km away from the mine when I got the Land Rover stuck while trying to cross a stream. I don't know whether it was my own fault or just bad luck. I was almost across when it sank into the bottom mud on the uphill climb. 

There's no way to get it out - it just sinks deeper. I have no choice but to try to hike it, but under these conditions I'm not sure I can make it. I'll have to fill my pack with as much food as it will hold, plus a flashlight, Father's pistol, a few spare cartridges, and some other odds and ends, including the contents of the first aid kit, compass, journals, map, and notebook. I'll also take the machete. We had 2 canteens, which I shall fill. My food supply, if I ration it to only a little bit morning and evening, should last about a week. I have no idea how far I can go in a day, but, by Father's estimates, I must be about 165 km. from the main road. I don't dare try to shorten the distance by cutting through. I'm not sure I could anyway - the vegetation is so thick. I'm leaving my sleeping bag and all else. I can't carry it and struggle through the mud too. I'd try to take more food, but the weight would slow me. It's down to a choice of do I hope that I can make good time with less weight or do I carry more weight and take longer. I think I lose either way. How will I ever walk 165 km? 

~~~~~ 

**_Monday, 7 April - on trail_**

Nothing to write, besides it's too dark and I can't waste the torch battery. Hard, too, because the blisters on my hands are breaking and leaving them raw. Rebandaging them is almost useless. 

All day and into the night, I just slog through the mud. I fall in the mud. I sit in the mud. I sleep in the mud. I shall never be clean or dry again. Some people go to spas to take mud baths. I shall never be one of them. What a joke. I'm probably going to fall and suffocate in the stuff. Then, come the dry season, it can just harden over me and become my grave. It might be better than being supper for the local wildlife. I doubt the pistol would work now should I need it. I have never known such darkness. It is so silent and yet there are so many small, lonely, living sounds. 

~~~~~ 

**_8 Apr, Tues_**

My 3rd day of walking. I don't know how far I'm going each day. Am exhausted - the mud is worse than quicksand - at each step it sucks my feet down and refuses to let go. Have lost my boot 3 times and have had to reach down into the bog to pull it out. 

I might get on better without shoes. They have become like huge concrete blocks. My legs are coated up to my thighs with great globs of mud, because I fall on almost every other step. It has gotten so thick I can scarcely bend my knees - I feel like I'm wearing casts of the stuff. If it weren't for the incessant rain that at least washes my upper body and hands, it would be a full body cast. In a way, I thank God for the rain. When it stops the bugs come out and guess who's dinner. 

I don't know how the Land Rover made it through. I don't recall it being this bad, but I was too angry to pay much attention. Father was drinking and swearing a lot. We did blow the water pump shortly after we left the main road and the next day the fan belt broke and we got stuck a lot, but Dad always worked us free. 

I've tried to stay off the road, but then I have to hack through the vegetation, which isn't exactly growing from dry ground itself. It's so thick it's practically like a wall on each side of the trail. My hands are becoming infected. I have to inspect myself every now and again for leeches. I never manage to sleep more than a few minutes at a time - the demon comes and my Father dies yet again, then he comes for me. I see it again and again, but I can never stop it. I don't know that I'm going to make it. I wish I knew how much farther. I can recall no landmarks other than that ledge we stopped at for the night. 

~~~~~ 

**_10 April - Thurs_**

I am in a constant climb upward. Some of the steeper grades are almost too much, but the slide on the downhill is worse. 

Late last night I heard something creeping about in the underbrush. Something big. I have no idea what creatures may inhabit the area. A jaguar, perhaps? 

I am beginning to wonder if my "Sight" is an evil thing. Did the forces of darkness use it to manipulate me into causing my father's death? I would tear it out by its roots if I could. Failing that, I must learn to either suppress it or master it. Am too tired and my hands hurt too badly to write more. I feel like lying here and waiting to die. The tears finally came. 

~~~~~ 

**_11 April - Vrijdag_**

1 week since Dad died. It's like I can't even remember it now. It must have taken me 10 min just to figure how many days it had been - they are running together. I can't remember what Dad looked like. I can't think any more. For me there's only mud and hunger and exhaustion. I despair of ever seeing the sun again. Even when the rain briefly stops, the low, grey clouds are still there. My clothes are rubbing sores because of their filthy wetness. 

Sometimes I hear Dad's voice repeating Mother's mantra: and this too shall pass. I say it with each step, but don't believe it. No, that's wrong. It will pass. I'll either make it out or I'll lie down in the stuff and die. Mother will never know what became of us. Dad didn't tell anyone where we were going. 

~~~~~ 

**_14 April - Monday_**

This morning I very nearly couldn't climb to my feet. I don't know how long it took me to actually stand - perhaps as much as an hour. How shall I ever do it again in the morning? 

Have been on the road more than a week. If only I could know how far I've gone. My food is gone. I should have brought more, but common sense tells me I couldn't have carried more. I've managed to replace the water - thank God I thought to bring the water purification tablets. 

I can recall little of any single day - only an unending monotony of steps. As I stumble along, I am very nearly in a trance. I don't know how my feet and legs continue to move. My knees - all my joints - feel arthritic. 

Lincoln was shot today in 1865. I don't get much US history at school, but Father insists that I study it on my own. He likes to quiz me on dates, names, and battle strategies. I'm always ready for him at that. It's a good game. 

What did I just write? For a moment I forgot he was dead. How could I forget that my father is dead? 

~~~~~ 

**_15 Apr._**

57 yrs. ago this morning the Titanic sank. Funny how one remembers these things. I think I've hit my own iceberg and am sinking fast. 

The altitude is rising and the vegetation is changing, even as the sides of the road become steeper. My lungs have begun to feel it and the temperature is more chilled at night. My feet don't look so good - red and swollen - and have a very odd smell. Is this jungle rot, I wonder? I have no ointment or gauze left - all gone for my hands a couple of days ago. Wouldn't do any good anyway. 

Though I hate the thought of not being able to rinse them off in the rain, I'd best not take my boots off again. I might not be able to get them back on. Hands are even worse. They're hot and throbbing. Am managing to hold pen between my index and middle finger instead of the usual way. Other sores are worsening as well. I think I have a temperature. I wonder what gangrene is like. I've studied it in physiology class, but only as a name and definition. 

~~~~~ 

**_18 April (I think)_**

I'm not sure what day it is. Yesterday afternoon - I hope it was yesterday afternoon - I got so hungry I ate some berries from a bush along the trail. They looked something like gooseberries, so I decided to take the chance. I never knew hunger pains could hurt so bad. If this is Friday, then my food ran out 5 days ago. 

Shortly after eating them I became dizzy and ill, after which I remember nothing until I awoke down the slope in the forest this morning. I must have fallen. I have a couple of rather large cuts and scrapes, as well as a huge, black bruise on my shoulder. It was pure luck, with a little help from my "Sight" that I found the road at all. I think I'd backtracked. The compass readings were different. Thank God that somehow my instincts were strong enough for me to hold onto my pack and one of the canteens, though the other and the machete are gone. 

A rather funny thought - if this is the 18th, it's the anniversary of the SF quake and fire - 63 yrs. ago. It's a week of disasters. At least our house remained standing. Perhaps I can too - with God's help. 

What's frightening is that I don't really know that it was yesterday that I ate the berries. It could have been 2 days or 3 - I may have gotten turned around and backtracked God knows how far. My gut tells me that it wasn't yesterday. 

From now on I shall only write how many days from this point. 

~~~~~ 

**_Day 3_**

Doubt this is legible, I write in total blackness - hands don't want to work at all - nothing does. Have made it to ledge at last, but it's bittersweet. I now know that it's 50 km to main rd and that I've traveled 130 since leaving the mine, but I don't know how many days it's taken, nor how long it's been since I've eaten. If I lost no days from the berries, then it's been 16 days since Father died and 1 week since the last of my food - and I've averaged 8 km per day. This means another week until I make it to the road. God help me find more strength from somewhere. 

Am sitting on reasonably dry, but cold rock. I've spread my clothes in the rain to try to wash them off - tried the same for myself without much benefit that I could tell. Decided to try to get my boots off - may have been a mistake. Took most of the skin and some meat with them. Don't know how I shall ever get the things back on, but at least they and my feet will be somewhat washed. However, if cleanliness is next to godliness, I must already be at the gates of hell. 

Though the weather is still reasonably warm, I'm always chilled. I feel like prehistoric man must have felt before the discovery of fire. I sit here in darkness totally alone and listen to the sounds of the vast, primordial forest. I am naked, cold, filthy, hungry, and stink of infection. God knows how far away another human being is. 

Am down to only 2 water purification tablets. At dusk I caught a small lizard. I found the remains of the fire that Father had built here (such a dismal sight) and thought to do the same, since I still have matches in a waterproof box. But I lacked dry fuel. I tore about 30 pp out of the notebook and journals, plus as much semi-dry fabric and padding as I could find in my jacket. It all caught, but it burned so quickly that there was no way that it would cook the lizard, so I ended up eating the thing raw. I am once again paying for my dietary habits. Although it didn't stay down, it gave me violent cramps, amongst other things. 

Am truly beginning to weaken - more than just fatigue. I have a bad cough and occasionally the shivers. I don't know that I'll be able to walk at all. I tried a while ago when the effects of the lizard hit me, but almost passed out from the pain. I never knew anything could hurt so bad. I may be crawling tomorrow. If I do make it to the main road, I pray there will be someone there. It's not exactly the Autobahn. This may be my last entry. 

~~~~~ 

**_Day 6 (not sure)_**

So used to the pain of my hands and feet that I no longer even feel them. Have, indeed, ended up crawling sometimes. My other cuts are infected as well. I've lost track of time again. I don't know if the ledge was 2 nights ago or 3. I only hope I've not reversed course again. I can't remember most of yesterday or last night at all. Am out of purification tablets and the canteen is gone. So hungry this morning I ate grass and tried a piece of the leather from my pack, but couldn't chew it enough to risk swallowing it. Tore 5 pp from this journal and managed to get them down, but no water other than the rain and the mud puddles. The climb is always upward now. The cliffs are rather inviting. Then I could sleep. 

~~~~~ 

**_Day 8?_**

Still no road. Must keep going. Must get Father home. 

~~~~~ 

**_5 June 1969 - Amsterdam - 2:17 a.m._**

2 months ago tonight. It's odd - I am watching the clock and counting the minutes. It's just past 9 p.m. on the 4th in Peru. I don't know the precise time, but it's close. Everyone is asleep. I lit a candle and set it on the window sill. It's foolish, I know, but when I was very little, my nanny lit a candle on 22 December, the night her mother died. She said that her mother's spirit would visit for as long as the candle burned. It's a comforting thought. I need comfort now that no one can give - not even God. 

It's time I began to write again. As I reread what I wrote and what Father wrote, it almost seems surreal, and yet not. I'm surprised that at some point I didn't slip into Dutch. Languages are odd. Latin is horrid for me, yet I switch back and forth between English and Dutch and at school even French and German with scarcely a thought. And, once I'm speaking or writing in one, I rarely inadvertently switch to another. 

~~~~~ 

I have the decrepit, old pack sitting beside me on the bed. God, it smells of mildew and worse. Somehow, I managed to hang onto it and, miracle of miracles, no one looked in it or destroyed it. Now it has a special place that no one, not even Ingrid, knows of. I only take it out when the house is dark and silent and my door is locked. 

Until this night, I've not had the courage to open it. First I took out the key - with Father's ring still on it. They let me keep it. I have it around my neck now. How odd it feels. Then I read his sepulchre notebook, then my own journal - both are water stained, mildewed, and filthy. The pages stuck together, but the ink didn't run. As for the damned parchment that started it all - I cannot bear to touch the thing and it's where it will never again see the light of day. 

Now, for the first time, I'm opening his wallet. The mildew and mould are very bad. There's cash - a little of everything - dollars, pesos, and Peruvian soles. Why did I think I'd need the money? For the lunch at the Lizard Cafe, perhaps? No, if all had gone well and I'd made it out in the car, I would have needed it. 

Here are his Calif. driver's license (Why are the photos always so bad?), his US Social Security card, his Luna I.D. card - all rather mangled. Two coins - a 1850 English penny and a 1853 US quarter, both in mint condition. 100 yrs. before Ingrid and me. I wonder if they were his lucky pieces. He never said anything about them. 

Oh, God, there's a photo of Ingrid and me on the rocking horse in the nursery. Mom's holding us on. We all looked so happy. There's a crayon drawing on newsprint. It's in bad shape. It won't last much longer. It's of the Golden Gate, the ocean, and the sun. It says, "I love you, Daddy, Ingrid." There's my penmanship certificate that I won during my first term in Switzerland. I was seven. I don't know what to think. 

He did love us once and was proud of us then. Why did it fade? Or did it? Maybe he just got more distracted and confused as the years passed? Perhaps, I'll understand one day - maybe it takes age before one can begin to understand one's parents. 

ENOUGH! I must finish my story before my hand gives out. 

~~~~~ 

We arrived home on 23rd of May. I did not return to school, but they said I could do the work over the summer and take the tests at the beginning of next session. If I finish with grades in the top 20%, I won't have to repeat anything. 

I am almost completely mended, but it was a bit of a haul. The only reminder is that my feet still kill me when I set them on the floor first thing in the morning. They say it will take a long time for the nerve endings to become less sensitive. I doubt I'll be playing much football when I go back to school, but then, I never did have much affection for shorts, knee socks, and black and white balls. 

I think the worst part has been that Ingrid has been determined to put weight back on me by putting her culinary classes to good use. She will never be a chef, but I can't damn her for her loyalty, or her love. She has missed so much of her term that she's in the same boat as I am and will have to either repeat the term or do the work and test out of it. 

Apparently a trucker found me in the middle of the Cuzco-Puerto Maldonado Rd. late on the 25th of April. It was a good thing that Father always insisted that our passports with a notification card always remained on our bodies. Otherwise, I'd have been a John Doe until I came to my senses - or they'd have most certainly looked in my pack. 

I remember very little after the night on the ledge. I don't know how I made it to the road nor how I got to Lima. To tell the truth, I can't remember much of what went before either. All I do know is that I awoke after four days in a hospital in Lima. My feet and hands were totally bandaged and I seemed to be sprouting tubes. I was a mess - not a pretty sight. Once I told them where I had come from, everyone very nicely kept telling me I shouldn't be alive - that my guardian angel had been watching over me. They all joked that he must be a very potent angel. Perhaps so, all things considered. 

The infections were serious enough that there was talk of amputating several of my fingers and toes. I'll swear they gave me every shot and pill known to modern medicine. Besides the infections, I had picked up a few different breeds of parasites and fungi as well. It was all rather disgusting. I don't think I'd care to be a nurse. 

I was quite helpless for a while with both feet and both hands encased in gauze and completely out of service. It is truly annoying when one again begins to feel well, but cannot do much of anything that calls for the use of a finger - including pressing a nurse's call button. Mastering how to turn the page of a book was a major accomplishment. The elbows, nose, and tongue are truly inadequate substitutes. I also discovered how embarrassing life's necessities can be when you can't even hold a spoon or a glass of water. I shudder in horror at the thought of another sponge bath. At the moment, I'd rather die. But, I must admit, I think I have learned the lessons of patience, persistence, humility, and how to forebear with dignity. What else can one do? I had a lot of time to think and to remember more than I would ever have wished. 

Prof. Washburn arrived before I awoke and Mother and Ingrid got in later that night. I gave Father's Legacy Journal to the professor, but otherwise was still quite out of it for a few days, what with the drugs and a fever besides. Thank God they didn't think to go through my pack - absolutely amazing! That guardian angel of mine must have been working overtime. I am actually surprised they didn't burn it when they burned my clothes, considering its state was as disreputable as my own. I'm repeating myself - oh, well. I should have destroyed my journal and Dad's notebook, but perhaps continuing to write is what saved me somehow. The secrets contained in there must never be known. 

Señor Muñoz, the precept of the Lima House, and his associate, Fr. Ramirez, both came several times to check on me. Really they came to ask me questions. I stonewalled them with "I don't remember." They seem incredibly willing to accept me at face value, even the professor, who should know better. They seem to accept that the shock of my father's death and my own ordeal have buried the memories too deeply to be touched or have wiped them away completely. I wish they had. Instead, they repeat in glorious technicolour again and again. Sometimes, I awaken screaming, but I'm still managing to get away with "I can't remember." I may soon have to change my tune to "I don't want to talk about it." I'm just waiting for someone to suggest a psychiatrist. I have told no one, including Mother, anything more than what's written in Dad's journal. Mother suspects, but she's still running interference. She's like a junkyard dog with a single pup. I am almost sure Ingrid knows. I think she's "seen" my dreams. I'm sorry for her if she has. 

~~~~~ 

I've had a lot of time to think about my "Sight". At one low point I wondered if it was evil - and therefore, if I was evil. Now, I think it's neutral and like any sense, it can be misinterpreted - and thus be manipulated for good or bad. I must work to train it and myself to stay on course. It stems from my own emotions, and yet, I must learn to appraise it separately from my emotions. It is through the emotions that the dark powers can manipulate it. I must be ever on my guard - ever vigilant - and must warn Ingrid of my discovery. I fear our abilities could be turned to very great evil. We must both pray that there are guardian angels who will guide us. 

~~~~~ 

Luna is being placed under the control of a trusteeship, which will gradually relinquish control to me when I reach twenty-one. I am to have full charge by the age of twenty-six. When that comes, I shall use a portion of the foundation's money to establish a museum to be named after my father. His collections will form the core. Mother has let it be known that she expects me to attend Oxford. She says that since I'll still only be sixteen when I matriculate, she wants me close to home - not half way around the world. We'll see about that one. 

I don't know who will be appointed to succeed Father as precept in San Francisco. I don't really care, other than the fact that they will be living in our house amidst Father's collections. That house has many secrets. I hope no one gets the urge to remodel. At least Prof. Washburn will be there, and Mother plans to visit during the summer to make sure all is well. Perhaps, when I gain control, I'll send the Legacy packing. Alcatraz should suit them just fine. No, I shouldn't say that - Mother has never harboured any resentment toward the Legacy itself - not that I know of. Her only anger was toward my father's obsessions. If she doesn't, then perhaps I shouldn't either. The Legacy does a worthy job and is worthy of the respect and devotion it commands. I feel it's pull, and yet.... 

~~~~~ 

I seem to be wandering. I am still avoiding writing about this, but I am down to having nothing more to say. I'd best get it done and over. 

The professor, Señor Muñoz, and Fr. Ramirez retrieved Dad's body and evidently found the site and my explanation convincing. We had him cremated in Peru. The newspapers got the story wrong. Why am I not surprised? They said he was killed at Chimbote, which is a fishing port on the Peru's northern coast. I guess someone must have looked at a map, was unable to find Chipote, and so assumed that the reports meant Chimbote. Actually, all the better - in case any non-Legacy adventurer is ever tempted to go treasure hunting. 

The funeral, on 20th May, was a good one - dignified. Lots of people wanted to attend because of the foundation's contributions and activities, but Mother kept it small. We had a private mass at Mission Dolores - the same church where he was christened. For his urn, we chose an Orange ware jar from the Toltec-Mayan culture. It was a piece in the collection from the Early Post-Classic period, found in Campeche, Mexico and probably dates to about 1100 A.D. For some reason, he had been particularly fond of it. He liked it's shape and colour, and especially its decoration of black hand prints. He said once that the hand prints preserved a little of the potter's soul. 

We placed the urn in a niche in the chapel-tomb above Ayala Cove. It's next to his father's plaque and empty niche. It has an ornate bronze gate that can be opened. I took it out and held it twice before we left. The bronze plaque below has an enlarged replica of a Legacy precept's signet complete with an enameled blue setting, under which lies his name, Winston Rayne, and his dates, 1914-1969. My own will be there one day. The thought is comforting. 

It's odd - but somehow the world seemed a smaller, safer place when I knew Dad was somewhere in it. It didn't matter where - whether in SF, Timbuctoo, or the next room. It didn't matter whether we fought or I felt that he was ashamed of me, whether we laughed or even saw each other. He was there. Now that he's gone, it's a scarier, lonelier universe. The nights seem darker, the winds colder, the sunlight less warm. 

The R.P. came from London to attend and remained to accompany us home to Amsterdam. He was most attentive and solicitous. He kept pumping me and assuring me that there would be a place waiting for me in the Legacy when I'm old enough and ready. Mother says that they are quite impressed. Adults think they're so clever. I don't need his place in the Legacy and I don't want it, though I fear it will be mine. Damn the Legacy to hell - and me with it - but most of all damn Lucifer himself and all his minions. 


End file.
